The Final Fall
by NeoCosplayCat626
Summary: He knows he should care. It's his job to care, he just doesn't anymore. When he thinks, he feels and remembers a vague memory of being relied on. A ghost of a thought about someone he cared for. Post-Reichenbach. One-shot. Just my first successful on-shot ever, no biggie. Enjoy the feels.


**This is just an idea that came to me one time when I should've probably been learning. Yay for procrastination! This is actually the first one-shot I've ever written and the first Sherlock story, so don't worry if it's not up to scratch, I don't represent the entire Sherlock fandom with my crappy fanfiction writing.**

**Okay, so this didn't go exactly how I wanted but I am particularly proud of the ending, so enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: Blarg! I could never be as incredible (and evil) as our Gods, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.**

* * *

It's cold, he realises, colder than he thought it would be. It doesn't matter. It doesn't bother him anymore; temperature. His body sometimes reminds him of its natural need to stay warm by sending him into fits of shivers that shake him to the bone. He ignores them.

Basic survival instincts force him to eat when he really needs. Sometimes he doesn't realise he's eaten until he finds the empty plate in front of him.

He knows he should care. It's his job to care, he just doesn't anymore.

When he thinks, he feels and remembers a vague memory of being relied on. A ghost of a thought about someone he cared for.

He shakes his head; not today. He won't think today.

The wind blows his hair into his face. _It's too long_. He observes. He can't remember when he last cut it.

Blue skies today. He smiles, it's been so long since he's seen a blue sky. He remembers a weather report. The hottest May on record, they said. They lied. He's seen nothing but grey.

The metal door slams behind him as he takes his first few steps into the new surroundings.

The city really is beautiful from up here. He understands now, he understands why Sherlock chose this place to die.

A few more steps and he's out of the shadows of the door way. The sun hits his face and his hands. It's warm now he's in the sun.

For the first time, the numbness is wearing away. He feels the heat of the sun, the breeze on his skin, the gravel under foot.

'_What are you doing up here, John'_

He hears the voice, deep and harsh.

"You're the genius, you should know." He replies out loud. He's calm; it's not the first time he's spoken to Sherlock and not seen him.

Sherlock doesn't speak.

John sighs.

He's on the edge now, over-looking the street. It's an important building for him; St Barts. He first met Sherlock here, he learnt about science and Sherlock and the art of observation here. He lost him here. He smiles at the thought that he'll find Sherlock again here. It's fitting; the lost, re-united in such a personal landmark.

He sits, content with the sounds and the smells and the sights of the city.

He's going to stay here, in this place, for the rest of his life. He chuckles to himself, that is pre-determined.

'_Are you going to be up here all day?' S_herlock's impatient voice echoes in John's head.

"Sherlock," John warns, "not usually the kind of thing you rush. Just wait a while."

'_Boring.'_

John smiles, "you never change."

'_Why should I?'_

John shakes his head, "you shouldn't. You're...fine." He takes a deep breath. "Alright then, Sherlock, time's come."

He stands and takes his place on the edge, toes touching nothing. The wind picks up slightly, nothing drastic, but he can feel the difference. It pushes him, gently guides him from behind, like strong, warm hands leading him to sanctuary. John looks down, there's a few people milling about, no-one seems to have noticed him yet. He thinks about maybe making a call of his own, Lestrade or Molly or Mrs Hudson, just to thank them, to say goodbye. He decides against it; they'd only try to change his mind.

_This is it then._ He thinks. _The end of all things. _For him at least. He knows the world won't stop for him, not to prolong his final moment, not to mourn him. It will continue to turn like he never existed, he's grateful for that. That makes things less painful for everyone.

He lifts his head to the sky, raises his arms like he's spreading his wings.

'_Are you ready, John?' _Sherlock asks.

He tilts forward.

"Oh God, yes."


End file.
